


Therapy

by ceruleyana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epistolary, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceruleyana/pseuds/ceruleyana
Summary: John processes Sherlock's fall through a letter. But not to Sherlock.(A Very Old Post-Reichenbach Story)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 9





	Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> The following are to blame for this attempt in fiction: Sherlock BBC, Sea Wall, Lacrimosa by Regina Spektor
> 
> This was originally posted in 2012 post-Reichenbach, and had the prompt: Letters to Cupid. Just posting this here to archive this short story. I found this deep in my Facebook feed, back when I was simply sharing fanfictions with friends and not the whole internet.

Damn you.

You’re to blame for everything—the pitying stares and empty consolations from everyone who knew (and some who didn’t), the sudden instances of vertigo, the gaping hole inside me, sucking everything in…

I still remember when we first met. Most people forget first meetings, and so did I, but somehow, I still remembered ours. And how couldn’t I? He, for the first time (and most certainly not the last) stunned me with his massive intellect. I still remember the slight smirk he had when he introduced himself.

He remembered too, unsurprisingly.

He knew I was impressed, and he knew that I would be, the git.

And yet sometimes, he’d have a surprised look on his face when I tell him he was brilliant. Funny, that.

(God, this is so st—)

I read the story of Icarus when I was young (maybe you’ve met him, being Greek and all seriously, what am I doing?), and at the time, I thought he was a complete idiot. He knew what might happen if he flew to high, yet he still did it—where the bloody hell was his common sense? But then, life happens, and suddenly, Icarus doesn’t seem so stupid any more.

From an ordinary person’s point of view, he’s… well, like a machine. That man can and has insulted anyone within a two mile radius. Not the best way of getting people to like you, obviously. He’s really good at making people angry.

I’m not really putting him in a good light now, am I?

Callous, apathetic, unemotional… most _would_ describe him as such. And yet… you see him do things like ‘accidentally’ pour a corrosive chemical on our landlady’s already used up sofa just so that he can ‘replace’ it with a more comfortable one, and make me a warm cup of tea during off days.

(Am I messing up tenses again? He used to go on about it when I wrote blog entries. I’m not doing justice to his intellect, he said. Who cares? He’s not here to glare at me for it.)

He’d play Mendelssohn on his violin whenever I have nightmares, even though he preferred Tchaikovsky. I’ve always liked Mendelssohn. Now, I can’t stand hearing it.

(How the bloody hell is this supposed to help?)

Icarus risked flying towards the sun because it mesmerized him, like a moth to a flame. He’d been trapped in a cold dark prison for so long, and the burning light of the sun was all too welcome—anything to get away from the darkness.

I understand that now.

Everything was just so... so grey before he came along and dragged—not that it took a lot of convincing—me with him into complete insanity. Life had nothing for me, few months before I met him. I felt so useless, and he saved me from that. And now, he’s…

I had nothing and no one, then somehow, I had him. And now I don’t, and the hole just keeps on getting bigger. I see him everywhere, and sometimes, just dragging myself out of bed is a result. Three weeks? It feels like three years.

I miss him.

He was my best friend and partner. He was the most important person in my life. I loved him, and I still do.

When he fell, I fell with him. But still, even though I’m worse off now than before I met him, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

You did this, you sick twisted Greek (or Roman. I don’t even care anymore) bastard. You and your bloody arrows made me care.

I…

Thank you.

PS: Happy, Ella?


End file.
